


Acid Grind

by rashaka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dark, F/M, Sexual Fantasy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:16:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3203942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rashaka/pseuds/rashaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So make me scream," she dares him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acid Grind

**Author's Note:**

> After the events of episode 2x08, "Spacewalker", Clarke has time to herself where she imagines past and future lovers. 
> 
> I'm not sure how to tag this, because it does get a bit darkfic in the middle, and the whole thing is a very unsubtle psycho-analysis of Clarke. It's definitely -not- a typical masturbation fantasy fic. I had fun playing with a lot of different tropes, so I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> As always, feedback is a boon and a blessing!

By the time Clarke slips past the fabric shield of her tent, it's nearing eleven and the camp has settled into the silence of mandatory curfew.  She peels off her jacket, tossing it into the plastic tub on the right side of the tent.  That tub is her closet, her laundry basket, her one luxury.  Carefully, she sets the electric lamp beside it on the tarp floor, making sure not to jostle it. 

 

Standing before the straw and parachute bundle she calls a mattress, Clarke inhales sharply, pulls her foot back, and kicks.  After a moment's pause, she kicks it again.

 

When nothing with four legs or eight scurries past her, Clarke lets the breath out of her longs in whoosh and collapses on the bed.  It's been four nights since the peace was accepted, and amidst the attempted poisoning and subsequent drama, they had managed to hammer out a plan of attack.  The first phase is set for tomorrow, with the entire plan designed to get them into Mt. Weather within a fortnight.

 

Begrudgingly sitting up, she shoves her boots off and drops them at the foot of her sleeping space.  She elects to keep her socks on, because night temperatures on Earth can drop unexpectedly.  Next to go are her pants, and her shirt.  Clarke thinks about taking off her bra, but decides the chance of someone waking her up for an emergency outweighs the minor discomfort.  As she settles in, face down on the itchy fabric, it's hard not to think of the many ways an emergency might erupt, and how it could further delay the mission.  Every day that they wait to move against the mountain is a day that her friends could live or die.

 

She can still call up the president's face, with his cataract eyes and his pale, bony cheeks.  Dante Wallace is a snake, the master of dark, blood-caked tunnels, and Clarke would bet that he lies to himself as much as he'd lied to her.

 

"And the doctor," Clarke mutters to the empty air of her tent.  It's a mountain full of vampires, and soon enough they'll all be made to face the sun.

 

With a groan of "Hell," she flips onto her back, and wishes she could think of something else.  Unfortunately, she's been filling her brain with Mt. Weather and the mission to keep out the other thing she doesn't want to remember: a body hanging from a post.  Clarke doesn't even have to close her eyes to know the weight of his head falling to her shoulder.

 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , she is not going to do this tonight.  She needs _sleep_.  She needs to be able to function tomorrow, and if her body won't relax on its own…maybe she should help it along. 

 

It's probably callous, and she definitely isn't going to feel good about herself afterward, but physical release has proven medical benefits.  In Clarke's case, it tends to knock her out faster than any painkiller.  Decision made, she swings her single blanket over herself and stretches both legs apart.

 

Growing up on the Ark afforded a citizen limited privacy, and once in prison she'd never trusted her space not to be monitored and recorded.  As a consequence, masturbation was risky, so when she'd indulged it always took her a while to work up the mindset.  When Clarke was fourteen a dirty novel had made its way through the girls of her Earth Skills class, and that helped give her the words to shape her fantasies.  She doesn't need the smut anymore, but still finds herself unable to reach an ending without the mental framework.

 

As she reaches one hand into her underwear to flutter her fingers over her center, Clarke tries to build a picture to carry her through.  She uses her other hand to touch her stomach, drawing lazy circles up to her breasts.  If she closes her eyes, the caress feel like a man's lips.  He drops kisses in little steps up her chest, circling one breast, then the other.  In her mind's eye, he pauses then to say something clever, and that's when Clarke realizes why it all feels so achingly familiar.

 

Finn kissed her like this. 

 

His tongue and his lips had marked a trail up her body, and she'd giggled because he was just as charming and confident without a stitch of clothing on. 

 

 _Fuck_. 

 

She sees him now: beaten and bent over, whispering into her ear while his blood dripped in a steady flow onto her hand.

 

"No!" Clarke hisses aloud to herself, and she shoves thoughts of Finn Collins aside.  She imagines a wall in her mind, and everything to do with him is locked behind that wall until her consciousness becomes a hollow room.  Knowing that it won't keep him out forever, Clarke scours her mind for anyone else she can fixate on.  She's only been with one person, but there's plenty of handsome faces in the camp. 

 

"C'mon, Griffin," she encourages herself aloud.  "Just think of someone."

 

What happens next is achingly predictable, almost a cliché.  If Clarke were an outside observer of her own life, she'd shake her head and tsk-tsk just like her grandmother used to do.  "So transparent, Pumpkin," her nana would say, clicking her tongue against her teeth.  "It's like you're not even trying."

 

In truth, she is all of those things, because in her determination not to think of a dead boy, Clarke latches onto the next living one that comes to mind.

 

 _Bellamy_. 

 

She probably shouldn't—it’s only going to make it weirder to work with him—but she needs sleep tonight and hell, she needs someone safe to fantasize about.

 

Since when did Bellamy Blake become the safe choice?

 

He's not even a boy, not the way she's used to thinking of it.  Clarke's seen his hands crush and pound and kill; she's also seen them cradle and hold.  Bellamy is a man, an adult five years into his majority, and somehow tonight that idea takes on a wholly new appeal.

 

She sets the scene late at night, with him pulling her by the hand to hide with her between the tents and the makeshift shelters that populate the camp.  They're walking by the hull of the fallen Ark, around the corner from the secret gate, when Bellamy pushes her against the burned, half-rusted iron wall and latches his mouth onto her neck.

 

He gropes her in the dark, away from the lamps and the torches, and Clarke imagines her own fingers crawling up his arms to his shoulders.  She lets her hand drift back to her legs, over the panties this time, and rubs the heel of her palm against her mound as she imagines it's Bellamy's thigh she's grinding against.

 

"We shouldn't be here," she hums in her fantasy.  "It's past curfew."

 

Bellamy chuckles; she's only heard the sound twice, but it's affixed in her memory.  When he kisses the warm spot below her ear, his lips are soft and Clarke shudders, grinding her hand down into herself with more effort.

 

"You won't report me," he tells her, and his voice is low and sexy and _oh_ _fuck_ it's the same voice he uses to argue with her when he doesn't want other people to hear them.  He bites the lobe of her ear.  "You want to keep me around."

 

When Clarke begins to moan, not sure if it's fantasy or not anymore, Bellamy lifts her by the waist and suddenly Clarke has her legs around him.  She slams her mouth into his, letting her tongue explore the smirk she's stared balefully at so many times before.  Of course she'd wondered idly about kissing Bellamy, but this contact is sheer passion, unchecked and unreserved.  They lean into each other like they could be separated at any time, and his hips push her into the wall in rough, sharp motions.  Behind her the smooth steel walls are cold against her shoulder blades, and that's when she knows they're not at the camp anymore.

 

They're in the Sky Box.

 

This is her prison cell, and she's never fantasized about this place before, but she recognizes her drawings on the wall over Bellamy's shoulder.  Clarke looks at him while he kisses her collarbone, and notes that he's dressed as a guard this time, which is weird too, but she rolls with it.  His hair is still the way she knows it: loose and wavy, so she digs a hand into it and pulls his head back to kiss him again. 

 

"Bellamy," she sighs into the collar of his uniform, "I want more."

 

The man in her fantasy kisses her again, then lets her body slide against the wall till her feet touch the floor.  Before she can ask he brings one hand up to toy with the buttons on her pants.  Clarke groans _yes_ , then his fingers tuck into her underwear and she can feel the trembling contact.  The pads of his fingers slide over her pubic hair, find the folds of her labia and drag against them.

 

In the quiet of her tent back at Camp Jaha, Clarke's own digits trace the same path.  She rubs up and down against her outer lips, breathing shallowly as slickness builds between her fingertips.  She tightens her stomach muscles and cants her hips open.  Within her imagination, Bellamy makes tiny bites against her shoulder as he finally pushes a finger inside her channel.

 

"Touching you is dangerous," he warns, his cheek hot against her own as he pushes his thumb against her clit and slides two fingers inside.  His other hand is iron on her hip, holding her to the wall as he gives her a list of all the laws they're breaking.

 

"Consorting with a prisoner," he murmurs.  "Unauthorized methods of interrogation.  Dereliction of duty.  Conduct," he bites her lip, then lets it go, "unbecoming of an officer."

 

Clarke gasps, pushing her pelvis up to feel more of him.  "We both know you're not really an officer."

 

"Yeah, and this isn't the Ark."

 

The words make it real, and in a flash, it's not the Ark at all.  Their surroundings become a white room with the smell of blood beneath antiseptics.  Bellamy has her back to the door this time, and her hand reaches up to feel the glass window behind her hair.  It's solid, as unbroken as if she'd never been here to destroy it.

 

"Bellamy," she whimpers, but all thought is wiped from her mind as her friend drops to his knees and drags his tongue along her center.  Clarke almost buckles at the knees, only the support of his hands keeping her upright.  She grabs onto his shoulders, pulls him closer in as her eyes clamp shut.  He licks her, and even while it's happening Clarke knows they're wrong to be doing this.

 

"Not here," she moans, and her eyes fall on that familiar, swirled blue painting just as Bellamy's touch makes her see stars.  "You don't belong here with me.  This place is evil, it's sick."

 

“It's your fantasy, Princess,” he says.  Before she can take back the thought it's already changed: Bellamy's arch voice becomes Finn’s easy lilt, and _damn damn damn_ she’s losing it.  Clarke can feel herself waver, even while her heart rate skyrockets. 

 

"C'mon, Princess.”

 

Brown eyes have been replaced by the milky eyes of the dead.  Finn stares up at Clarke, his mouth working her like he had their first night together.  Then for a heartbeat Clarke can't breathe at all because it's not his tongue inside her, it's _him._

 

"Are you into this?" Finn asks, looming above her now.  He smiles, and _moves_.  "I think I'm into it."

 

Clarke yanks her hand away and snaps her legs shut.  "Oh my god," she whispers.  Her voice is alone in the tent; she's alone. 

 

"Oh my god…Oh my god oh my god.”

 

She doesn't know what to do with her hands.  Should she sit up?  Should she wipe her fingers off?  Somewhere behind her eyelids, Finn's still smiling.  Clarke swallows down her nausea.  The impulse to cry sweeps through her, but she sniffles it back.  Wiping her face with the back of her arm, Clarke deliberately straightens herself out on the bed.  She tries to focus on where her legs are, then her arms, and finally her shoulders.  If she can make herself relax, then she can control her heart and mind. 

 

This is still salvageable.  Her body is still keyed up, the space between her legs is still wet, and Clarke _needs_ this.  It's normal, and it's natural.  It'll help her get to sleep.

 

Her first impulse was right: she needs something that won't remind her of Finn.  Elsewise it's a nightmare in the making, and she refuses to let this part of herself be tainted along with the rest. 

 

Thank god Bellamy makes such a good distraction.

 

Using all of her conscious thought, Clarke turns her mind to him again: a tangible, living memory of his arms around her, and how she breathed into the open skin of his neck when they hugged.  She fills her hollowness with the rough safety of him, the bite of his acid tongue. 

 

“I want you, Clarke,” she pictures him saying in a quiet, fierce voice.  Nothing so dangerous as love, just wanting.  After all, Bellamy chases what he wants: a gun, a radio, a sister.  Be it a bargain, or an enemy, he pursues it with a patient single-mindedness, never letting the goal slip out of sight. 

 

It wouldn't be so terrible, Clarke tells herself, to be on the other end of that chase.  But when she tries to take the image further, tries to picture Bellamy as someone passionately chasing _her_ , the image slips.  Like a watery reflection in her mind's eye, Clarke can't hold the concept together.  When he embraces her, the real Bellamy's eyes are steady and safe. 

 

She trusts him.

 

 _Christ_ , she thinks, because now she's imagined herself right out of the fantasy again.

 

Never let it be said that a Griffin gives up.  Clarke brings him to the forefront of her mind, and she knows it's reaching the point of ludicrousness now, but damn it, she is gonna make this work for her.  She's going to get her orgasm, then she's going to sleep, then she's going to drag herself out of bed tomorrow for another day of hell on earth.

 

"Or you could just say 'fuck them' and do whatever the hell you want," a voice whispers in her ear.

 

 Maybe she'd been going about this all the wrong way.

 

Like opening her sketchbook and filling up the pages, Clarke draws him in her mind, laying down the details with color until the picture is real.  Bellamy Blake, self-proclaimed tyrant with his arms crossed and his lips in a sneer.  He steps into her space and his eyes rake over her like he's measuring her value by the ounce.  They're in his tent back at the drop ship site, with firelight burning outside and the cushions from the drop ship chairs tied together like a bed in the corner.  Clarke can see fur blankets, and she licks her lips before meeting his eyes.

 

"You're not leaving until I get it."

 

"Get what?" she snaps, and steps into his bubble as well.  They're practically chest to chest now, glaring at each other.

 

He snorts dismissively, and before she can move he wraps his hand around her wrist.  The cold aluminum and bites into her skin under the pressure.  “I want this bracelet.  I want to rip it off your pretty little wrist.  And I will do exactly that, Clarke, if you keep resisting.”

 

She tosses her head back, and pushes slightly on the captured hand until her fingers graze his belt.  “Well what about what I want? Even down here, you don't get something for nothing, right?”

 

This Bellamy isn't safe or convenient.  He's not her friend, he's certainly not trustworthy, and he's a million years away from caring about making things good for her.  When he grabs her by chin and slams their mouths together, Clarke shoves her tongue into his mouth and winds her hands into the front of his shirt.  It's more like fighting than kissing, but before she can blink he has her on the floor of the tent, the cheap cushions and a sheet of tarp barely protecting her from the rough floor of the forest.

 

His rips her pants open so fast the buttons fly off, and she almost cusses at him because they don't exactly have thread to pass around.  Instead, she's occupied with tugging her shirt and bra off as quick as she can.  Bellamy's clothes vanish almost faster than she can blink, leaving her with the sight of all that skin he liked to display, and then a whole heap more.

 

Any artistry or seduction she'd built into her previous fantasies is gone out the window: Bellamy crawls over her body and touches her everywhere.

 

"I want to fuck you," he tells her, as his hands cup her breasts and his mouth slides over her nipple.  "I want to bury my cock inside you and feel how wet you are for me.  Every time you open your privileged little mouth I want push you up against a tree and make you scream."

 

"So make me scream," she dares him.  "Prove to me you're worth my attention."

 

It's ten kinds of terrible, saying something like that, but challenging him so fucking hot Clarke almost doesn't care.  Bellamy kisses her, yanks her legs open, and pushes himself right up against her mound.  He feels hard and hot beside her own wet need, but he's still hovering on the brink. 

 

Bellamy drags his mouth from hers, and smirks down at Clarke when she practically mewls and arches toward him.

 

 "What are you waiting for?" she bites out. 

 

He smiles, and it's a mean thing to see.  Moving his jaw sideways, he meets her gaze fully as he says, "You know how it works on the ground, Clarke.  If you want something," he breathes the command against her lips, "then you _take it_."

 

"Well tonight I want you to fuck me," she tells Bellamy, as she reaches between them to take his cock in her hand and guide him inside of her. 

 

They both moan as he slides in, then the hand splayed wide on her ribcage slides up to capture her left wrist against the bed.  Bellamy pulls out partly, then slams his body into hers.  He does this again, then again, faster and harder each time.  Clarke brings her legs up to circle his waist and pushes herself up to meet every pounding thrust.  This Bellamy fucks like a machine, all power and indiscriminate force.  It's rough, it's possessive, and it's completely different from anything she'd imagined before.

 

Is this how it would have been, if they'd done it all those weeks ago?  Would it have been this way if Clarke had turned toward him in the silent bunker, set the rifle down, and wrapped her legs around the slant of his hips like all the other girls?

 

"Say my name," she orders him as he pushes into her over and over, searching for a deeper angle and a tighter impact.  "Say it, Bellamy."

 

"Clarke Griffin," he snarls, and as he says it he drags his teeth from her neck down to her shoulder.  "Daughter of the Councilwoman.”  Bellamy hikes one of her legs up higher, practically trying to screw her into the ground.  "Imprisoned for treason.”  The fingers on his right hand link with hers, the other hand drops between them.

 

"Thinks she's Queen of the fucking Earth," he says as his fingertips land on her clit. 

 

Clarke's whole body arcs, and her legs tighten as her muscles clench up.  In her mind's eye the hand between her legs is Bellamy's, the fingers driving into her cunt are Bellamy, and he thrusts so hard and deep inside of her that the world blacks out.  Clarke climaxes alone in her tent, with Bellamy’s eyes staring down into hers and his name cascading from her lips.

 

After a few seconds of panting inhalations, Clarke drags her hand away from her legs and wipes the mess on the canvas wall.  Letting her arm flop back down with the rest of her boneless body, she stares into the darkness of her empty tent and lets her breath out.

 

"Alright Clarke, what the hell was that."

 

Groaning, because she certainly hasn't got an answer, Clarke turns onto her side just as sleep finally captures her for good.

 


End file.
